Thursday, April 9, 2020
Contrary to what my poet friend believes, I am not one of the immortals.
Instead, I am what the NIH calls “morbidly obese” and that comes with sweating.
I think I’ve seen myself this way as long as I can remember, and so I became it.
I can’t figure out how time is moving so fast and so slow simultaneously.
The abandoned rock pile in the park across the street keeps changing shape.
The two pigeons are together on Mariposa Street every day, I don’t know since when.
I heard a crash and a cry for help but when I looked over the fence, no one was there.
For some reason I got angry at the back neighbor for reacting so hysterically.
I checked on the next-door neighbor; he was fine, but hidden behind his screen door.
As I’m writing this, I keep thinking of my journalist friend’s joyful young son.
When I visited them last summer, he kept playing in the mud and crawling on the earth.
I hope with every part of me that he’s the immortal, that he can become.